


These little bright things

by elliceluella



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Avocados at Law, Avocados for life, Fluff, Gen, Snuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:18:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8419381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliceluella/pseuds/elliceluella
Summary: Living within his means has never been something Matt felt ashamed of. Work hard and make the most of what you’ve been given, dad always said, and Matt carries that with him. One more thing that helps him feel close to dad, one more thing that lets him hear his voice. It’s a weight Matt treasures, but Foggy, Foggy adds a levity to it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless fall fluff for the "more comfortable with the cheap stuff" square on my bingo card.
> 
> All the thanks to Significantowl for making sure I kept on schedule, and working her magic as always! ♥

The brand-less alphabet cereal that’s mysteriously _always_ on discount tastes like cardboard but it’s cheap, and that means more money for college essentials like beer, so they suck it up. It’s a little disconcerting how it goes stale at an alarming rate of two weeks, though.

But Foggy makes a game of it, sticking them onto cards for Matt, often silly messages or pet names. It goes back and forth between them, “Do ur laundry” and “Cheezy quack” and “U snore but ur not a bore” (that box was particularly foul and no one felt guilty for turning most of it into a craft teacher’s nightmare because longer notes could only do so much).

Matt’s a sentimental sap when he wants to be, discreetly sealing up one card that says “Cutie pa2tie” in a plastic bag and stashing it at the bottom of his drawer until it disintegrates into something dubiously resembling sand a few months later.

Living within his means has never been something Matt felt ashamed of. _Work hard and make the most of what you’ve been given_ , dad always said, and Matt carries that with him. One more thing that helps him feel close to dad, one more thing that lets him hear his voice. It’s a weight Matt treasures, but Foggy, Foggy adds a levity to it.

He makes it easy, happy; Matt never knew that it could be...fun, almost. It’s nice, like maybe he doesn’t have to do this alone anymore— finally gets to carve some semblance of family and, if he’s brave enough to admit, home, in between sharing pizza and ramen and blankets, laughing unguarded and genuinely happy. It used to be puzzling, the good kind, and now it simply feels good.

It’s where he belongs.

*

“That’s it,” Foggy grunts as he shuts his laptop. “All this final year shit can kiss my ass.” Matt huffs in agreement, fingers hovering over the same page he’s been at for the past half hour before they curl into a loose fist.

“I need some fresh air,” Foggy says, and Matt hears the agitated way he’s rubbing at his eyes, feels the belly-deep sigh that leaves him a second later. “Park?”  

Matt nods and flops backwards onto the bed.

Foggy gets up from his desk and joins Matt, patting his head before scratching his scalp lightly. Matt pushes up into the touch and is vaguely proud of himself for not purring.

“I’m thinking it might be pretty nice to sip hot chocolate while we’re at it,” Foggy says, after a while.

“You’re a saint,” Matt murmurs, face now half buried in his pillow. No one makes hot chocolate like Foggy, who uses the usual store-bought items but somehow always makes them taste like sheer bliss. Matt can already taste the sweet warmth on his tongue.

They’re out the door in ten minutes. It’s a little out of shape after years of washing, but Matt still wears the sweater Foggy’s mum knitted. It’s his favorite— the softest one he owns, the one that holds a world of happy memories. Matt brushes his thumb against Foggy’s shirt once his hand’s resting the crook of Foggy’s elbow and smiles. Flannel, just as well-worn as Matt’s sweater.

He remembers his first visit to the Nelsons’, getting overwhelmed the night Anna popped her head into Foggy’s room with the sweaters in her arms, Foggy’s slightly embarrassed “thanks mom” trailing off when he saw whatever mess of emotions were playing out on Matt’s face, Anna hugging the both of them tight but tactfully not saying a word. He remembers bundling the sweater up and falling asleep with the comforting pressure against his chest, remembers how Foggy sounded when he invited him, nervous and excited.

He’d called it a ‘pre-Thanksgiving test-drive sans loud relatives’ and it was sweet, the way Foggy was so mindful about crossing any lines that Matt might’ve had even after he knew about dad and St. Agnes and not having any family.

Matt loved how Foggy never assumed, never judged. Best of all, Matt loved that he never pitied Matt. The invitation— and the thought that Foggy wanted to bring him home for Thanksgiving— had him in a startled state of happiness he never thought he’d experience again. Foggy never said anything about the soppy smile that hung around Matt for the rest of that day, and Matt indulged in the possibility that perhaps Foggy had a matching one on his face as well.

The leaves give beneath their feet in a satisfying crunch, and Matt maybe puts more force than necessary in his steps just to hear Foggy laugh, a bright bubble of warmth, rich in his ears. It’s one more reason why Matt always feels grounded but looser, softer, whenever he’s in Foggy’s orbit; a pull he’s powerless to stop. Not that he would, anyway.

The quiet park is a welcome change. Foggy takes out the thermos— the one they’ve snuck countless sips of DIY alcoholic beverages from in their study carrel— once they’re seated on a bench, the aroma of hot chocolate and coffee that’s been mixed in blooming in the air when he unscrews the cap and flips the lid open.

It’s warm and delicious, rich, a real treat every time Matt takes a sip. Tastes like a real splurge because it's _good_ and _priceless_ , and Matt feels special. It takes two more sips before the lump in his throat goes away.

Foggy’s never been embarrassed about his family’s background, so Matt didn't understand the hesitant pause in his breath that first time they stood at the Nelson’s doorstep, before he told Matt not to expect anything fancy. Where Matt’s concerned, the Nelsons have always been rich in every sense of the word that mattered.

“Alright, spill. What's that face for?”

Matt just smiles through the pleasant buzz going on under his skin. “Nothing. Just— this is nice,” he eventually says.

“Yeah.” Foggy claps a hand on Matt’s shoulder and leaves it there. Matt’s _this_ close to leaning into Foggy, burrowing into his chest and staying there like a bear in hibernation until spring rolls around. And maybe even then…

Foggy gives Matt’s shoulder a squeeze. “I wish we could have this every day,” he says.

Matt chuckles. “But then it wouldn’t feel so nice anymore.”

“I don’t know, buddy,” Foggy says as he shrugs. “I just shrugged. I mean. Good beverages, quality company...” he gently nudges his ankle against Matt’s, “I don’t think I could get sick of this.”

Matt doesn’t know what to say. Best to swallow another surge of feelings with one more mouthful of bliss.

They sit in silence breathing in the crisp air, Foggy’s arm still draped over Matt’s shoulders. Matt listens to the way Foggy breathes, the rhythm of his pulse, strong and just, always _there_ , until he lets the blanket of contentment that’s since settled between them lull him into a false sense of security, convince him that it’s okay to slide down until his face is basically resting on Foggy’s shoulder.

He’s not even doing it consciously. It just _happens_ , like instinct, or, or whatever this is that happens more often than not whenever he’s around Foggy.

Matt likes how soft the flannel is, a hand me down from one of Foggy’s older cousins- it’s soft and it smells good, like Foggy. He remembers Foggy describing it to him, rich reds and black, a little tear in the seam on the left. “You feeling me up with your face, Murdock?” Foggy asks softly, laughing. Matt blushes but maybe doesn’t stop. Can’t stop.

“Warm,” Matt sighs, happily. “And soft.” He pauses long enough to angle his head up at Foggy. Matt has no idea what’s showing on his face but he wishes he could see Foggy’s right now, to know the look accompanying the dance in Foggy’s chest.

They leave when the breeze makes them shiver and Foggy informs him that it’s getting dark.

“Nothing can top the one you carved two years ago,” Matt says once they’re back in their room, putting the pumpkins they’d bought on their way back by the window.

He remembers the way Foggy alternated between running his teeth over his bottom lip and trapping his tongue between them as he sat on the porch with Matt, deep in concentration as they worked on their pumpkins; remembers the way Foggy’s laughter made him feel after he’d placed his completed pumpkin in Matt’s hands and asked him to guess.

“Is this...me?” Matt had asked, too surprised to decide if the flush in his cheeks was from the cold or from the deep embarrassment that having his mug on a pumpkin would leave him so choked up.

Foggy’s laughter is just as bright as it was then. “It was tough getting your chin right, dude. You should also know that your particular variant of handsome is impossible to pin down,” Foggy says, in that warm tone Matt wants to curl up in.

“For what it’s worth,” Matt says, grinning as he adjusts his glasses, “I think you did an excellent job.”

Foggy chuckles. “Aw, thanks, Matty,” he says. “And hey, Marvin’s never been as dazzlingly portrayed as he was on your pumpkin.”

“In what world does your favorite plastic dinosaur resembling a sad muffin count as dazzling?” Matt asks, then, “Hey, your words, not mine,” when Foggy laughs again.

“The one where I drag you to my bedroom to hide because your face is screaming _Overwhelmed! Abort, abort!_ , granting me prime opportunity to introduce my dino buddies to my favorite human, and then said human tries to recreate my favorite one the next day while wearing _this_ goofy smile,” Foggy says, lightly tapping Matt’s cheek, happy puff of warm air tickling against Matt’s cheek, sweet chocolate from the afternoon still lingering, teasing.

“I’ve had them since I was five. They’re dinky but I still love them,” Foggy had said. Matt knew what that was like, to love something that might’ve looked old or weird to others but held a wealth of memories. He had several such mementos lying in that old chest dad left him.

Matt listens as Foggy rattles off design ideas, half absently tracing on his knee what he intends to put on his pumpkin, half resisting the urge to sink his fingers into Foggy’s hair. What? It’s just the raw, wild call of research. He’s determined to get every detail down as best as he can.

*

It’s a disaster. Matt knows he has a penchant for dramatics, but it's a disaster. Admittedly less horrible than carving a sad muffin dinosaur, but still.

Foggy doesn’t care though, if his crow of absolute delight and insistence on taking a selfie with it _and then_ sending it to his parents is any indication.

“You got my nose down to a T! And my glorious mane!” Foggy whispers in awe, swinging an arm to pull Matt into a side hug. Matt blushes but leans in, angles his head down towards Foggy’s pumpkin that’s cradled in his lap. Two avocados: complete with long, shaggy hair on one, glasses and a cane on the other. It’s beautiful.

“You wouldn't mind if I fondled your pumpkin more than strictly necessary, right?” Matt has no control over his fingers tonight. He might also be a little bit drunk. On what exactly, he’s not sure.

“I'd be offended if you didn't,” Foggy says, laughing, and Matt basks in the way his heart speeds up. Yeah, he’s probably drunk on that.

*

Matt finds Foggy’s flannel shirt neatly folded and tucked in a stack of his own clean clothes on his bed a few days later.

Foggy’s heart swoops low when Matt mentions it. “Oh, must’ve been another bout of drunk laundry,” he says with a nervous chuckle. “You know how I get.” Matt doesn’t know what to make of the pulse that skips to a rhythm of _lie, lie, lie_ , or the fact that his own cheeks are embarrassingly warm.

Foggy never takes the shirt back.

Matt never wears it out, it’s too valuable. Irreplaceable, really.

*

They spend a quiet, cozy night-in at Foggy’s new place the Friday right before they start at L & Z, baking while Singin’ in the Rain plays in the background. Dad couldn't afford an oven when he was a kid and the kitchen in the dorms were woefully inadequate, so everything is new and sticky and messy and fun. Matt doesn’t realize he hasn’t stopped smiling, so lost in the smells and textures and sounds (Foggy’s happy voice reading the recipe out loud, humming along to the movie) until Foggy playfully dots his nose with flour and laughs at Matt sputtering in surprise.

Once they're on the couch Foggy wraps his ratty thin blanket over them, the one he’s had on his bed since the first time they met. It still feels and smells exactly the way Matt remembers it, and it’s hard to swallow past the quiet panic in his throat because he knows it’s going to be near-impossible to get nights like these anymore, and he’s not ready to put all these memories in a box marked _History_ yet.

Foggy makes a questioning noise when Matt’s snuggles border on desperate. He would be ashamed if losing all this wasn't looming so close. “I’ll miss this,” is all he can muster in a small voice.

“I know, Matty,” Foggy says quietly. “But I’ll always be here. Promise.”

Hints of cinnamon and apple from the pie still dance on his tongue. They had it with vanilla ice cream, the good kind, because, “I saw it the other day and it made me think of you; that one time it was on discount and we got it and the way you sighed when you tasted it.”

Foggy falls asleep on Matt’s shoulder, and he takes the opportunity to run fingers through Foggy’s hair. He’s secretly— selfishly— glad Foggy’s not cutting it short just to fit in with the bigwigs and sycophants.

Outside, rain starts to fall, light patters against the sidewalk and windowpanes. Stray tunes from the movie play in his mind, every note in Foggy’s voice.

Avocados at law. He can picture it. Some day they’ll have their own office: the floorboards may creak, they might have to hide wiring in the ceiling, but it’ll be okay because it’ll be charming, it’ll represent ease, _contentment_ ; assurance that he’s not alone.

Foggy will be there, and Matt will do his best to protect the best thing in his life. And if— no,  _when_ they find that place, he’s going to tell the agent “we’ll take it” immediately.

It’s going to be great.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://ellicelluella.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


End file.
